


Home Comforts

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Cooking Lessons, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Not legally because he's a forty year old man but you know - spiritually, POV Multiple, Post-Season/Series 06, The Thursdays Adopt Endeavour Morse, Written without reference to s7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: “Morse, come in, stop cluttering up the doorway,” Mrs Thursday ushers him out of his coat and through to the kitchen. She's tucked a warm cup of tea into his hands before he's much realised what's happening, and he glances down at it before taking a gulp. “Now, let me look at you.”He smiles awkwardly, fixing his gaze over her head; out the back window and into the garden. “Roses are looking good,” he tries.“Those roses need a good clipping, Morse, I've been telling Fred about it for weeks.”
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Joan Thursday, Endeavour Morse & Win Thursday, Fred Thursday/Win Thursday
Comments: 41
Kudos: 72





	Home Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Endeavour WIPathon group who encouraged me to actually sit down and finish this after I'd been working on it off and on for nine months(!). I hope it was worth the wait...

“How's Morse?” Win asks suddenly one evening. The television is on, but neither of them are paying much attention to it. Win has her knitting draped across her lap, and he’s been mentally flitting between the latest case and the utter, unyielding relief of having Win at his side again. He won’t take this cosy domesticity for granted.

“He's well enough,” he answers, taking a sip of whiskey. “Bit tied up in the Jacobs' case at the moment, but he wouldn't be him if he let that brain of his switch off for an evening.”

“And in his personal life?”

The questions seem a bit out of left field, but he supposes Morse hasn't been around that much recently. Time was, Win would have seen him at least a few times a week. Now he's not sure when they were last in the same room. “He's just got himself a house, up on Wood Farm road.”

Win nods, fingers moving over her knitting like she's counting stitches, but without the usual mouthing of words that accompanies the action. “So now he's not taking care of himself in a house, instead of a flat?” 

Fred meets her eyes with a little difficulty; he’d not quite thought about it like that, but knowing the lad like he does... “Well. I suppose so.”

Neither of them mention it again, but the next morning Win hands him two sets of sandwiches, as she herds him out of the door with the usual peck on the lips.

–-

The Jacobs' case has finally been settled – turns out it was the brother in law all along, the oh so helpful witness who'd called in the death – and Fred leaves the constables and sergeants filling out paperwork. Win greets him at the door, and he breathes in the smell of beef stew, set to simmering for most of the afternoon.

“Hi Dad! Bye Dad!”

Joan almost bowls him over, running out as he tries to hang his coat up, and he chuckles. The vibrancy of youth, no doubt off down the bingo with her gaggle of girls. Turning down Win's cooking for a stop at the chippy on the way back to her new flat. She'll miss it one day, this easy come and go access to home.

“Stew tonight?” he asks, settling his hat on the peg.

“With dumplings.”

“You know how to treat me right.” He gives her a hug, the smell of the stew momentarily overcome by the scent of her hair. He breathes it in until she slaps his arm.

“It'll be with lumps of charcoal if you don't let me go turn it down,” she admonishes. “When are you going to bring Morse with you again? I've enough to feed an army, and with-” She cuts herself off, but Fred can see the sadness in her eyes. Not so much about Joan's absence, not now they're all on speaking terms again. But Sam. That does bring her down, much as he seems to be getting on well. “Still can't quite get the quantities right,” she finishes, roughly pounding at some mashed potatoes.

He lays a hand on her shoulder, but quickly removes it as the motion continues. He leans against the cutlery drawer instead, and keeps his tone light. “Not sure he's wanting to come eat with his guvnor any more.”

“Nonsense.” Win seems to have pulled herself together. “He's never been open about it Fred, that doesn't mean he doesn't want a hot meal.”

“I'll try,” he promises, pulling plates from the cupboard. They're slightly too high for her, and way out of reach for Joan. Used to be Sam's job, once he'd shot up.

\--

“No girl on the horizon?” she asks later, as they tuck in to dinner. Despite the long gap, he doesn't need clarification, and resigns himself to another chat about his bagman instead of a quiet meal.

“Not that he's telling me about.”

“Just that big house, all to himself.”

“He got it for a good price.” To be honest, he hadn't really thought about Morse's intentions with the house, but now that Win pointed it out, it is a bit odd. “Time he was setting down roots, I suppose.” He'd been glad when he heard; it was as good an indication as any that Morse intended to stick around, that they were okay. But now the thought of him rattling around an ex-drug den twinges, and he can’t help a quick glance at all the empty chairs. “For a while I thought maybe him and Joanie.”

“I think we all did, them included.” 

“I'm not so sure he's the type any more.”

“You don't mean...?” Win looks vaguely scandalised, and he realises what he's accidentally implied.

“Nah, nothing like that, love.” When he'd first seen him, maybe, paired with the standoffishness and the university air. The thought had crossed his mind that maybe it was less girls, more boys... but you only had to watch him eye half the pretty ladies they cross paths with before realising that was nonsense. The lad just seemed to lose interest after a while. Or fall too deep for the unsuitable ones, and those that lost interest in him.

Win settles against him. “If it was... he'd still be Morse.”

“I know.” He's just glad – as a copper – it’s not something he has to face. Because he's hauled enough of that like in down the station over the years, and the law’s changed but the sentiment hasn’t – not quickly enough, any road – but he wouldn't do it to Morse even if it was an issue.

“Get him round here on Saturday.”

“I can't get him round on a Saturday-”

“That boy would do anything you ask, and you know it. Not so much has changed as will change that.” She places the crossword she's been filling out on the side table and stands up. “I'm off to bed. Just get him here, Fred.”

–-

It doesn't seem to matter what they've been through; Morse agrees as soon as he drops Win's name.

–-

Morse rings the doorbell, prompt at nine on Saturday. He's been up a few hours already, but the street the Thursdays’ house is on is only just properly waking up. He nods to the lady next door, collecting the milk. She gives him a funny look despite the fact they've met like this probably a hundred times before.

“Morse!” Thursday opens the door. “Come on in, lad.”

“I brought-” he offers out the bread, picked up fresh from the bakery on his way over. He's not sure why he's here, but he figures it’s for some kind of hospitality, and wine at nine in the morning seemed a bit off colour.

“Take it through to Win, she's in the kitchen.”

“Are you going out Sir?” Thursday is indeed slipping his mac on, and taking his hat from the peg.

“You two don't need me under your feet,” is all he says, before closing the door behind him with a firm click. Morse looks toward the kitchen, then back at the closed door, bread still clutched in one hand.

“Morse, come in, come in, stop cluttering up the doorway,” Mrs Thursday ushers him out of his coat and through to the kitchen. She's tucked a warm cup of tea into his hands before he's much realised what's happening, and he glances down at it before taking a gulp. “Now, let me look at you.” She stands in front of him, one hand clutching each of his elbows, staring critically. He smiles awkwardly, before fixing his gaze over her head; out the back window and into the garden.

“Roses are looking good,” he tries.

“Those roses need a good clipping, Morse, I've been telling Fred about it for weeks.” She drops his arms and turns away, popping the milk back into the refrigerator.

“Guess I'm not much of a horticulturist,” he answers sheepishly.

“Or a washerwoman,” she adds primly. At his questioning look, she nods to his shirt. “Must be day three for that at least- no, it doesn’t smell,” she interrupts herself, probably at the look on his face. “Just needs a press, love.” His eyes stretch wide, and he can feel a slight flush at the endearment she let slip. It feels… motherly. In a way that he hasn’t had in a long time.

“Not that I don't appreciate-” he shrugs. The tea, the care. Possibly, the criticism. “But why did you need me today? I could have a go at the roses, but you'll need to tell me where to cut.”

“If you start doing Fred's chores for him at home as well as at work, he'll sink into that pipe and slippers of his and never get up again.” Mrs Thursday starts pulling things from the fridge, loading them up on the table. “A bit of manual labour does him good. Now – wash your hands.”

Perplexed, he does as he's told. He's wiping them off on a tea towel when she hands him a mixing bowl and a jar of white powder he's hoping is flour. “Lesson one,” she says. “Bread.”

–-

It's a kind of alchemy, he realises later, watching Mrs Thursday pull the risen dough from the nook where she'd stowed it; close enough to the cooker for warmth, Morse, but not hot, we don't want to kill the yeast. He's always been more of an arts man than a scientist, but there's something satisfying in this process.

Something satisfying too, in the gentle ache in his arms from pummelling the dough, and scraping bits of it out from under his fingernails in a washing up bowl of warm water.

He flicks the kettle on for more tea, and takes the vegetable knife she brandishes at him. “Best make a start on the potatoes.”

–-

The house smells heavenly, Fred thinks, as he lets himself in. He can't help but close the door as gently as possible, and creep down the hallway until he can peer into the kitchen.

Morse is wiping the surfaces down, floury marks on his trousers, cheek and hair. Win has gravy splatters on her apron as she arranges dishes on the table.

“Fred!” she calls, catching him watching. “We've made a feast.”

“I can see that,” he says, entering the room and setting his hat on the table. “Been a pair of busy bees, have you?”

“Morse makes a wonderful assistant.” She pecks Fred on the cheek, and pushes him towards the back door. “But today he's  _ my _ sergeant, and those rose bushes need a DI's touch, anyway.” Fred rolls his eyes at Morse, surprised to see him blushing. Must be the heat of the oven, Fred thinks, rolling up his sleeves.

“If I'm heading out gardening I better get to eat some of this later.”

“Shepherd's pie's in the oven,” she promises. “I'll bring you a mug of tea in a minute.”

–

He really should get going, he thinks, feeling his eyes want to close for the first time in too long. Sleep is usually elusive; trapped within him for a couple of hours at a time through a concoction of opera, exhaustion and whiskey. But today, it's flirting with him. Drawing him in like a moth to the flame, until he doesn’t really want to let it go.

Might have been the two portions of shepherd's pie and beans, followed by rhubarb crumble and custard.

Or the fact that Mrs Thursday had practically pushed him onto the sofa to “put your feet up for a minute, Morse, you've been such a help.” There's a cup of tea on the side table – he's lost count of what number that is for the day – but lifting it right now would take too much effort. Instead, he watches Thursday pack a pipe before huffing and standing to turn on the television. He sits back down with the paper and flicks through it to the sports section.

“Win'll be watching her show soon.”

“I'll go,” Morse says, stirring. He's been here too long.

“Nonsense, just warning you that we don't get a say on Saturday evenings.”

We. Sounds nice.

“Oh Fred,” Win bustles in and takes the other armchair, carrying her own tea. “Thanks love. Do you watch  _ The Newcomers,  _ Morse?”

He shakes his head.

–

He wakes the next day to an uncomfortably familiar scene; upright on the Thursday's couch, although covered this time in a blanket rather than his own coat.

Someone has removed his shoes.

“All right Morse?” Mrs Thursday sticks her head round the door and he looks at her, still confused with sleep. “You must have needed that kip,” she smiles. “Come grab some toast quickly, I'm afraid we've got church.”

In the kitchen there's a mug of tea, cooled to drinking temperature, and a plate of toast waiting for him. He eats quickly, gulping the tea so fast he hears it in his throat, but Mrs Thursday just takes his empty plate back and replaces it with a stack of Tupperware boxes. He looks at her quizzically.

“With Sam and Joan gone we’ll never get through all the portions,” she says, fussing with her handbag fastener. “But I can’t make a pie for two, I don’t have the right size dish. You’d be doing me a favour.”

He peers at the boxes, and sure enough, they’re full of yesterday’s cooking spree. “I really don’t need…”

“Nonsense love,” she chivvies him out of the door, only just allowing him to grab his coat. Thursday stands at the car, waiting. “We’ll drop you off as you’ve got that to carry.”

\--

It’s less of a hassle, that week, to eat dinner. He’s as busy as ever but finds himself looking forward to thick slices carved from the half loaf they made, toasted up to combat the staleness, or a heap of shepherd’s pie warmed through in the oven. It’s as easy to fill a plate while a record plays as fill a glass. When stocks run out, he’s actually hungry, and stops in at the chippie on the way home more than once.

“You alright for Saturday?” Thursday asks, late Wednesday evening.

“Saturday?”

“Lesson two.”

His stomach feels warm, but he can’t bring himself to accept. It’s bad enough that he took up her whole previous Saturday – and for what reason? – then imposed himself overnight too. “I can’t, I’ve got-“

“Win’s been planning all week, don’t let her down, lad.”

He doesn’t really have plans. Unless you count music, books. Nothing that can’t be done another time, and with no explanation needed. If she wants him there... “I’ll rearrange,” he promises.

“Good.”

\--

He doesn’t bring bread this time; Mrs Thursday’s had been far superior to the baker’s offering anyway. Instead he buys a small box of chocolates, something she can’t cook for herself. It feels a bit odd, handing them over on his arrival – like a courting gift when that’s the polar opposite of what he means – but she thanks him kindly and pushes tea into his hands in return. They start the day off with a chocolate apiece and shared guilty looks when Thursday breezes past them into the garden.

“Thursday said you had a plan?”

“It would probably be alright for you to call him Fred while we’re here, dear.” She places a bowl in front of him, and the familiar box of bread flour. He remembers this from last time, and washes his hands before reaching for the scales. “And me Win, for that matter.”

“Right.” He coughs, and peers at the markings on the scale, taking extra care in balancing the weight. He can’t imagine calling the Thursdays by their first names; they feel like secrets, for each other only.

He knows she’s looking at him, her gaze heavy like a warm woollen jumper, but he keeps himself buried in flour and salt until she walks over to the fridge.

“Pastry today, once we’ve got that proving. If you can make pastry you can throw anything in it and you’ve got a pie.”

\--

It seems no time at all until they’re collapsing into the sofa, well fed, with Thursday taking on washing up duties and ordering Morse out from under his feet. Mrs Thursday sticks  _ The Newcomers  _ on again, and he might have fallen asleep last week but some of the characters are familiar enough that it keeps half his attention.

“Have a go on this,” Thursday says, when he re-enters the room, hands wrinkled from the washing up water. He’s brandishing a paper, opened to the crossword page with a few clues filled out. “It’s got us fair stumped.”

Morse pulls a pen from his pocket, already reading the clues. They’ve got twelve across wrong for a start, and he corrects the letters before heading back up to the top and starting with one down.

When the crossword is finished, he moves on to actually reading the paper – not something he gets around to all that often bar a quick skim of the headlines.  _ The Newcomers _ fades into something else, and then Thursday is tutting over the football results and it was already dark before, but somehow, it’s now gone ten o’clock and Mrs Thursday is retiring to bed. He picks himself up, glad he’s not dropped off this week, and heads for his coat.

“Leave that,” says Thursday, switching the television for the radio and puffing on a pipe. Something classical is playing; Boieldieu if he’s not mistaken.

“Sorry sir?”

Thursday gestures to the window, hidden by the curtains but with rain hitting it in big splats. “You don’t want to be heading out in that.”

“I don’t think it’s meant to get any better.” 

“Maybe not, but Sam’s room is going spare and Win keeps it made up on the off chance.”

Morse hovers. It was awkward enough last week. Is it less of an imposition or more of one, to be invited to stay? But the weather truly sounds terrible and he’s not fancying the walk to the bus stop, or the wait when he gets there.

“Grab the brandy while you’re on your feet, we’ll have a nightcap.”

It’s easier, somehow, to put off the decision until their drinks are finished. And easier then, with a tinge of warming alcohol and no outright questions asked, to head up the stairs quietly and sleep, deeply, on someone else’s pillow.

\--

It becomes easier still, over the coming weeks, to let himself fall into the routine. He shows up on Saturdays, helps Mrs Thursday with the cooking, and then spends the evening fixing their crossword errors while they watch television. He doesn’t stay over every week, but often enough that it’s not phrased as a question in need of answer – just a gesture up the stairs and soft socked footfalls on carpet.

The following morning he’ll be raised by a knock on Sam’s door, scarf down a quick breakfast, and catch a pile of Tupperware with enough leftovers to see him through the next few days. He thinks it must be a bit like being in a family, being folded into this everyday, although his own home never felt so warm – even before his mother died. He’s had to buy a new pair of trousers.

It feels comfortable, but that doesn’t stop him having a minor panic when he realises he’s settled enough that he’s got his own tea mug now; one of the revolving numbers that any family cabinet seems to collect over the years. It’s got a picture of a dog on it. Its weight is familiar and fits in his left hand just so while he chews on the pen in his right, a book of crosswords Mrs Thursday unearthed from the old basket in the corner on his knee. The puzzles are far too easy, but they keep half his brain busy while the other half absorbs whatever’s on the television. Much like Mrs Thursday’s knitting, no doubt.

“Morse.”

He’s shaken from his reverie by a hand on the shoulder, and comes back to the real world at his desk. Right, the Hopkins burglary report. “Sir?”

“Meant to tell you, we’re off to the coast for a week come Friday.”

“Have a good holiday,” he responds politely, until the meaning sinks in. No Saturday plans this week. “I’m sure Mrs Thursday will appreciate the week off.” He means from the housework, but Thursday narrows his eyes at him and he wonders if it came across as a week off from him. Funny, but he’s not been worried about that since the first couple of times.

“Just letting you know.”

\--

With Thursday away, the nick is surprisingly quiet on Friday. There are no new big cases, so they’re all finishing off odds and ends; actually clearing desks for once. No doubt something dramatic will happen soon, but in the meantime, Bright sends them all home at five on the dot and tells them to have a proper weekend off.

He has a few drinks with Strange for old times’ sake, and thinks perhaps he should earmark this weekend for doing up some of the house. He’d cleared it out when he bought it, but beyond giving the kitchen and bathroom a much needed deep clean, the rest of the spruce up has fallen by the wayside. Buried under too much work and a not insignificant absence of motivation. The nights have really drawn in now, though, and it looks worse in the early December gloom – especially in comparison to the Thursday home which he’s spent so much more time in.

It might be nice to have Mrs Thursday over to his, one week. As a thank you.

But there’s no way he can invite her to the scrawled walls and stained floors of a former crack den. She might be a copper’s wife, and used to a certain amount of baseness, but that’s too much.

He rises early on Saturday morning and heads into town. The hardware store is busy with DIYers, all of whom seem to know what they want and where to get it, but are nevertheless enjoying a healthy debate with their fellow shoppers as to whether  _ this _ option or this  _ almost  _ identical option is the right way to proceed. He stares at tools he can’t even name, stalking through the aisles until he comes across the paint. He figures he can start by painting the walls white; that will at least lighten the place up and he can always add colour and tackle other jobs later. He grabs two big cans and a roller.

“One pound, three and six.”

He hands over the money and escapes back out into the chilled, grey world. The air freezes with every breath, and he thinks longingly of the warm fug of a busy pub, or better yet the cosy calmness of the Thursday kitchen; a familiar mug of tea and the promise of fresh-baked bread for lunch. The bags are heavy, straps digging into his hands as he walks, weighing him down on his way back to a cold, dark house.

\--

He gets stuck in as soon as he’s back, and by the end of the day – or four o’clock, which he’s calling the end of the day – he’s finished the living room’s first coat. It’s so patchy you can still read the graffiti through it, but it has opened the space up, even if his head is now swimming with fumes. When he flicks on the overhead light, though, the harshness of a naked bulb makes him think perhaps white was the wrong choice. Never mind.

He sticks on a record and slumps into the armchair. He pours himself a glug of whiskey. It might be early, but he forgot to go shopping and if he drinks he won’t be so worried about food. He thinks of last week, a full roast dinner, and the week before when Mrs Thursday had just given him the recipe book and left him to it with the apple pie. The pastry hadn’t been as flaky as hers, but it had worked. No burnt bits.

He stalks over to the fridge and wrenches it open. He finished the leftover lamb on Wednesday, and all that stares back at him is a jar of pickle, lard and what was probably once a carrot.

Tomorrow, he thinks, slugging another measure of whiskey into his glass. He’ll go food shopping tomorrow.

\--

It’s only when he’s in the grocers, with only the vaguest idea of what he might make, that he realises he’s never really shopped to cook before. At college, he ate in the dining hall, and at home it was his mother and then Gwen who took care of that. Even now, living on his own, his weekly trips to the market have been more about basics – bread, milk, tea, and anything that can be put in a sandwich, fried, or warmed through in a saucepan – that he’s not sure how to approach shopping for a meal cooked from scratch. How pathetic is that?

He wanders instead, and the temptation is strong to just throw the usual in a basket and head out. Alternatively, he thinks he can remember some of the ingredients for Mrs Thursday’s meals – but he realises with a frown that he’s lacking almost all of the equipment. No pie dish, no rolling pin.

He hovers by the magazine aisle, unsure where to go, and a friendly shop assistant obviously notices his lost expression.

“Hello sir. Can I help?”

“I, uh,” he starts eloquently. He swallows. “I need to cook dinner.”

“Trying to treat a nice girl, are we?” It’s as good an explanation as any, he supposes, so he nods. “Any thoughts of what you want to make? What does she like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well something a bit exotic is always a good bet,” the girl continues. She’s young; perhaps early twenties, with her dark hair scraped back from her face with an Alice band. She’s probably a good source of information on what’s trendy, and he worries suddenly that he isn’t trendy enough. He’s somehow gone from young copper to an old man in just a few years; house of his own, facial hair and the beginnings of a limp. Not to mention cooking for himself, rather than any young lady friend. What if she suggests something that sounds god awful? He likes Mrs Thursday’s pies.

“She’ll appreciate the effort, I’m sure, and that way she won’t be comparing it to mum’s cooking,” she rambles along. She leads him over the magazine aisle, and he follows, letting her pick out a few titles. “These are always good for new ideas,” she says, flicking through. “Perhaps something Italian? Spaghetti Bolognese,” she pronounces all the letters, and he inwardly rolls his eyes. He might not be fully fluent, but he knows that’s a butchering of a beautiful language. 

“Sounds fancy,” he says anyway.

“I’d be happy enough if someone served this to me,” she grins over her shoulder at him, and passes over the magazine. It’s full of ingredients he doesn’t really know what to do with – pasta, and oregano – but the steps sound simple enough and they’re listed out in a high level of detail. He’s happy to see beef mince on the list.

“Okay, I’ll try this.”

“Meat down that way,” she points down one aisle, “and you can find most of the canned stuff over there. But just come find me if you have any trouble.”

\--

He must have used every implement in the kitchen, he thinks, and it’s a good job he hasn’t decorated yet because there are tomato splatters on the wall next to the fridge. And in his hair, when he hadn’t realised it was all over his hand, and had gone to yank in frustration at having missed one of the steps.

But the recipe… it must be fairly forgiving, because despite it all, the result is edible.

More than edible, he corrects himself, shovelling another bite into his mouth. Pasta. It’s a bugger to eat, and he’s not sure why they make it so long and stringy when you just have to slice it up again to have any hope of getting it in your mouth. He’d tried it as soon as it was cooked, as well, and wondered why anyone bothered, but now he realises it’s like pastry, or dumplings in a stew. Just a vehicle for the sauce. And that’s interesting. He’s never had tomatoes like this before, and he thinks they better suit meat and strange foreign herbs than they do cucumber and lettuce.

Yes, for a first solo effort it’s not a bad attempt.

Of course, when he goes to wash up he realises he doesn’t own any Tupperware either, and he returned all of Mrs Thursday’s in the week. He sticks the lid back on the pan and shoves the whole thing in the fridge as it is.

\--

“Good holiday sir?”

“Nothing like a spell at the beach, Morse. Sea air and sand, they should stick it on the NHS. Bit bracing mind, we’d do well to go back in summer. How was it here?”

“Surprisingly quiet.” He shuffles a few reports on burglaries, and one case of assault, and hands them over.

Thursday flicks through quickly. “Nice not to come back to a crisis,” he says, handing them back. “Are you free this Saturday? Win wouldn’t stop fretting last week.”

His heart sinks at the thought of her worrying while on her holidays. “I was fine, sir. But yes, I am free if that’s okay with Mrs Thursday.”

“You’ll be doing me a favour, I have to head into London so she’d be on her own.”

Morse nods, and Thursday rummages in his pockets for his pipe. Morse hesitates, then decides there’s nothing to be gained by not speaking. “Actually, sir – I was wondering.”

“Mmm?”

He lowers his voice as Strange ambles in and sits at his desk. “I – I could try cooking this week.”

“Oh?”

“I gave it a go and,” he pauses, scratching at the back of his head with one hand. Maybe it hadn’t been good? Maybe he just hadn’t eaten properly for a few days, and anything would have tasted nice. Maybe Mrs Thursday would take one look at a plate of pasta instead of potatoes, and red sauce where it should brown, and want to run in the opposite direction. She wouldn’t, though. She’d sit and eat it with a strained smile. “It was okay?”

“Well it's up to you, lad. At yours?”

Morse remembers his blinding white walls, the empty spaces where there should be furniture. “I can just bring the ingredients to you.”

\--

He’s unaccountably nervous walking up the Thursdays’ drive the following Saturday. He clanks as he walks, bags full of cans and packets, and a last minute can opener stuffed in his pocket because he’s not sure Mrs Thursday has really come around to ‘convenience’ foods so she might not have one. He ended up deciding on spaghetti bolognese again as it’s the only thing that’s had a trial run, but he now can’t remember ever seeing garlic in Mrs Thursday’s kitchen, and he’s a bit worried his diversion will come off as an insult to her cooking.

“Morse!” She smiles warmly as he comes in, and some of the tension melts away. 

“Mrs Thursday,” he responds, and as usual she narrows her eyes at him as she hands over his first mug of tea of the day. She’s given up trying to get him to call her Win. One of these days it will probably come out anyway.

“Fred said you’re taking the reins today?” She paws through the bags like a child on Christmas. “Let’s have a look.”

He lays the magazine out, flicking to the right page, while Mrs Thursday unpacks the bags. Checking the recipe through the tomato stains at least means he hasn’t got to watch her reaction, and when he looks up again it seems she’s managed to corral her expression into one of familiar encouragement. 

“You’ll be leading me here, love,” she says, finishing her tea and clearing a space for the chopping boards. “What’s step one?”

He blanks, and then realises that it really hadn’t taken as long as Mrs Thursday’s cooking tends to - no long slow baking, no chilling, no resting. It’s barely half nine in the morning, and if they start now they’ll be eating dinner by 11am. “Maybe we should do the bread first? Unless you want lunch instead.”

She smiles and pulls out the bread flour. “Ok. Now wash your hands.”

\--

It’s an odd sensation, moving around the kitchen later that afternoon. He’s used to going where he’s told, but although Mrs Thursday had read the recipe with the eye of an expert, finger sliding down the list of ingredients, she’d spread her hands when he looked at her nervously, and insisted that he tell her what to do.

“And then it cooks down… and we have to boil the spaghetti.” 

Mrs Thursday stirs the sauce a few times, and checks back over her shoulder. “Is that right?”

He peers into the pot. “I think so…”

She laughs, and sticks the lid on the pot. “Well, we’ll see. If nothing else we have fresh bread and a boiled ham in the fridge for sandwiches.”

Luckily - and perhaps surprisingly - after a brief break for more tea, the aroma of the sauce filtering through the kitchen smells good enough. He boils the kettle before putting the spaghetti on.

“Have you ever been to Italy?” Mrs Thursday asks when he turns around. He shakes his head. It’s always been a vague plan of his to go - he’d like to head to Venice, especially, and take in an opera - but somehow it’s never been the right time. A part of him thinks going alone would be a waste, in the city of romance, but there’s never been a girl long enough to suggest it. Not since Susan, anyway. “I can imagine you there. More than on Blackpool beach, anyway.”

“Oh yes.” The cloud of the past clears, and he’s back in the warm, cosy Thursday kitchen. “How was your holiday?”

It’s become easy to chat to Mrs Thursday; easier than he ever thought it would be. She tells him about days walking on the beach and taking in a variety show at the ABC theatre. He’s not sure it’s his kind of thing but it's clear she appreciated the time away with her husband. He lets her ramble about the fancy theatre decor and catching sight of one of the singers at the cafe the next day, while he tests the pasta by tasting a strand. The book had said to throw it at a wall and see if it sticks, but he can’t do that to Mrs Thursday's kitchen, and it seems a waste of good food anyway. Mrs Thursday sets the table while he plates up.

“Tell you what, this looks so nice. How about we open a bottle?” She pulls a red wine from the cupboard next to the sink and holds it out. He has little idea about wine or food pairings and the bottle is a bit dusty, but he’s not one to turn down a drink. He finds two glasses and they take it all through to the dining room.

“Mum?” The door bangs, and they both look up from their plates. “Mum, I know it’s last minute, but-” Joan bursts through the dining room door. “Oh. Um.”

Morse looks from Miss Thursday to Mrs Thursday, then back down at his plate. It’s a mess of red and stringy spaghetti, and his stomach flips, because she’s  _ here  _ and there’s still that ache and regret over how they’ve left things, but then also he’s sat at her family table having dinner and it  _ would _ be the one week Thursday wasn’t around, because now - now it looks like some odd kind of dinner date for two. Like he’s swapped daughter for mother, and the implication makes his ears heat. The only thing that could make it worse would be a candle. 

He clenches his hand around his fork.

“Joan, what a lovely surprise. Morse cooked us a lovely meal, let me get you a plate.” She bustles back into the kitchen with Joan still gaping, and Morse, left alone, forces himself to look up.

“She’s been teaching me to cook,” he explains, weakly. Surely the topic must have come up, it’s been weeks. He’d almost run into her - literally - that very first time. 

“Is that pasta?” She slides into the seat next to him and peers at his plate. “Bolognese? Didn’t know mum could cook that.”

“You like it?”

Mrs Thursday appears with another heaped plate, but the loss of his leftovers is worth the way Joan picks up a fork and digs in. 

“Love it,” she grins at him.

“Morse’s recipe,” says Mrs Thursday proudly, and he fixes his gaze on his plate. 

“Really?” 

He busies himself with chopping his pasta, but nods. 

“Well.” She takes a bite, then kicks him under the table until he catches her gaze. “Not half bad.”

\--

By the time they’ve finished eating, they’ve polished off the bottle between them as well. It turned out it was a good match for the food, and despite there not being much between three, the alcohol has left him pleasantly mellow. He starts to gather up the plates.

“You cooked, love,” Mrs Thursday says, laying a hand on his arm. “That puts me on clean up this week.” She pulls everything together and sweeps out. This is the part of the evening where he should be elbow deep in sudsy water - unless Mrs Thursday pushed Thursday into it - before another cup of tea and puzzles in the lounge. But with father swapped for daughter, their systems are out of kilter. Perhaps he should thank them and get going. But the thought of leaving the cosy house before his allotted time… he’s aware it’s kind of pitiable, but he looks forward to this all week. And it’s barely seven.

“You and me,” Joan says, as soon as the door has closed. “We should talk.”

“I’m not dating your mother!”

She looks at him strangely. “I know that, Morse.”

“It’s just…” he gestures helplessly at the table and she giggles.

“Mum’s not exactly a femme fatale. And you’re not… I just mean if anything, you're like… a son? I suppose. To her. She worries about you like she does Sam, anyway.”

“Oh. Well. Uh, good I suppose. And you’re doing well?”

To his surprise, she lets out a long sigh. He thought it a polite enquiry, but maybe even that is too much when there’s no audience. Perhaps he should have left them in silence.

“What I said at the welfare… I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“Half sorry,” she amends quickly, with a frown. “You were being a dick, Morse.”

“I know.”

“That’s where you say sorry too.”

“Sorry too.”

She grimaces at him, but when she leans back in her chair she lets out an amused huff that makes him smirk in response. She laces her fingers behind her head and stretches her neck back until she’s looking at the ceiling. “I’m forgiving you because you made me dinner,” she says, addressing the light fitting, “even if you didn’t mean to. I thought mum would be on her own, but she’d have been fine, wouldn’t she?” 

There’s silence, and he wonders what he should say. Joan - still, somehow, Miss Thursday, despite all they’re been through - is like a ball of knotted string. He’s never been able to read her, never able to predict where she might go or what she might do next. He just keeps catching on her edges, drawn into her orbit, then cut loose again wondering what happened. If she'd said yes, all those years ago, would they be sat here now? Or would they be in a little Oxford semi-detached of their own? Would they be happy? He thinks maybe not - that they might have splintered under the push and pull of the everyday.

He’s surprised to realise his thoughts are… academic. A part of him loves her, and probably always will - but he doesn’t want to save her. He doesn’t want to see her across the dinner table every night. The stretch of her neck as she looks at the ceiling is just that, the way a body bends, not anything to catch the eyes and rile the blood. 

“When you said - I was like Sam.”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe that would be… good.”

One thing he’s always appreciated about Miss Thursday is her quickness. She’s been a ready opponent since day one, opinionated, outspoken, clever. She fixes him with her bright eyes and quirks an eyebrow. “Would it?”

“Yes.”

She studies him so closely for a minute that he wonders if he’s splattered himself with sauce. But her gaze is calculating, not judgemental, and he waits it out. “No more out of the blue proposals, and stacks of savings?”

“That way… we don’t work, do we? Tried it, but - no. Well, I mean the money, if you ever need-” She kicks him again, sharp enough in the shin to cut him off with a yelp. That’s going to bruise. “I’d offer it to Sam too,” he adds sulkily.

“I don’t know how you managed to get a mortgage when you’re always giving money away.” In the background, the babble of the television picks up. Mrs Thursday is settling down to her stories, and the puzzle page of the local rag will be waiting for him. “Maybe I can help with that,” she teases, standing and tucking her chair under the table. “Next time you feel like going all white knight for someone, run it past me and I’ll let you know if you can afford it. And if they’re worth it.”

“You’re going to vet all my relationships?”

“Maybe.” She grins sideways at him. “That’s what sisters are for, isn’t it? Mum!” she yells almost in his ear. “I’m heading off - see you next week!”

She grabs her coat and pushes him towards the living room - and then she’s gone, leaving him feeling like he’s been deposited by some kind of whirlwind. Sisters? Although that  _ is _ what he implied, in a roundabout way.

He opens the door, and there’s his spot on the sofa waiting. It looks exactly the same, and somehow completely different. The newspaper and a familiar pen are resting on the seat, and his dalmatian mug is still steaming with freshly poured tea on the side table. 

“ _ The Newcomers? _ ” he asks, sitting and flicking to the puzzle page. 

“Vivienne’s got to bake a cake for the country show.”

“ _ Vivienne _ ? She’d do better to get Janet on that.”

“Oh, but Janet’s still in her rebellious phase. I think she’s going to show up and sabotage things.” 

He smiles down at three across as his heart rate starts to level out. “Swap the sugar for the salt?”

“A bit basic Morse, you know Janet’s got more imagination than that.”

\--

“Joanie!” cries Thursday. “What are you doing here? Everything alright?”

Morse looks up. Joan has been perched on the edge of his desk, nose buried in a book, while he frantically whizzed through the afternoon’s paperwork. It’s been almost two months since their half-fraught dining room conversation, and they’ve settled into a much easier form of friendship, to the point where he just feels vaguely bad about leaving her waiting rather than distracted to the point of uselessness. They’re down a constable at the moment, Jenkins out with the flu, so it’s all hands on deck - and he’s determined to get the last of his reports filed before they head off.

“Fine, Dad,” she pecks him on the cheek. “Just waiting for Morse. You don’t have to stick him with  _ everyone _ ’s paperwork.”

“He gets his fair share,” Thursday argues, drowning out Morse’s grumble. “He’s just a slow typer. You’re off with Morse, then?”

He keeps his eyes firmly on his report, signing at the bottom with a flourish before shuffling the pages straight and stapling. One down.

“We’re heading to the Turf, as Sam’s back. It’s ages since he and Morse saw each other.”

It was back on the base, all the kerfuffle that went down just before he shipped out - but come to think of it, he’s not sure if Joan was ever even told about that. She might think it even earlier, back one morning over toast and eggs and tea as the Thursday children tried to tumble out of the house while Morse stumbled in, waiting for his boss.

“Oh, Morse!” she exclaims, “I meant to say; I saw mum for lunch. She said, and I quote, the pasta is lovely but she doesn’t mind if you want to try something else tomorrow. Which I think means you’re getting predictable.”

He hums, scribbling quickly before wondering if there’s any point handing that page in or if he’ll have to redo it - he’s having trouble reading it himself, and he’s had a lifetime’s experience with his handwriting. Less haste equals more speed, perhaps. 

“I’ll have a think,” Joan promises. “Maybe something French.”

“Mmm.”

“Tell you what Joan, I’ll walk you down rather than you hanging about here. I quite fancy a pint.”

“Oh, no Dad-” she grins, sheepishly, “it’s no adults allowed, you know. Just the kids. This is how we stay such wonderful children, by complaining behind your back instead of to your face.”

“No adults…?” Thursday shakes his head. “Fine, fine, you don’t want an old codger hanging on your coattails. Tell you what though, if you’re complaining about me you should invite Strange. I’ve been putting him through his paces this last week, he’s probably got a few things to get off his chest.”

“No, Dad.” She fixes him with a look. Joan is very good at making a determined sort of face, one that says a conversation will only end when people see things her way. Morse glances up and smirks; she’s pulling it out now. “Just the kids.”

“Yes, but- oh.  _ Oh. _ You, Sam,” Thursday pronounces the name carefully, like he’s making sure he’s got this right, “and Morse.”

“Yes.”

He signs another report - more a blob of ink than a signature really, but what the hell. He pulls the final one over and leans until his nose is only inches from the paper, cursing his fair complexion. He may be able to hide his face, but he’s pretty sure his ears are bright red.

“Don’t…” he trails off, and Morse can’t help but look up. Thursday is watching him, helplessly. “Drink too much?”

“Don’t worry Dad, I’ll look after them.” Joan is used to being a big sister, that’s all, and it seems the fact he has almost a decade on her makes no difference to how she views her role. She’s already put his dirty mug over by the sink to be cleaned, and fetched his coat from the rack. He staples the last report, still beet red, and hands all three to Thursday who takes them as if in a daze.

“Right,” says Thursday. “Well.” He looks down at the reports, and visibly pulls himself together. “I’ll see you both tomorrow then. My love to Sam. And Morse... a few years back, we went on holiday to Brittany.”

“Oh?”

“Win was... pretty taken with the cassoulet.”

“Right, sir. Leave it with me, I’m sure I can find a recipe somewhere.” He does up his coat, and Joan starts tugging him towards the door. It’s probably fair, she’s already been waiting for almost half an hour. He turns and calls over his shoulder, “see you tomorrow!”

“Yes,” Thursday chuckles to himself. With the departure of his daughter and, it seems, son, the office is suddenly quiet. Most of the sergeants and constables have cleared out, but the cleaners haven’t yet turned up. He sees the glow of a lamp from behind Bright’s door, and remembers the bottle of good scotch he’s got tucked in his desk drawer. Perhaps there’s time for an end-of-week adults only nightcap, tucked in a quiet office instead of a rowdy pub, before heading home to Win. 

Yes, that sounds perfect. And maybe Sam will tip home half-drunk later on, or maybe he’ll stay with his sister - or even Morse, who knows - but either way he’ll see them all together tomorrow for dinner. He can almost taste the warming stew already.

**Author's Note:**

> So... what did you think? I only realised after writing that I had Win and Joan well on board the 'adopt Morse' train, and Fred was basically still in the station. But I kind of liked that it wasn't him driving it :D


End file.
